


Nothing Mr Epstein Can Do

by thisbirdhadflown



Category: The Beatles (Band)
Genre: Character Study, Drabble, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-13
Updated: 2020-12-13
Packaged: 2021-03-10 16:27:57
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,647
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28040142
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thisbirdhadflown/pseuds/thisbirdhadflown
Summary: Brian's reflections on Lennon - McCartney.
Relationships: John Lennon/Paul McCartney
Comments: 7
Kudos: 41





	Nothing Mr Epstein Can Do

He never asked John if it had been cathartic to cut tethers to decency and roar like a wildfire at the garden party. It’s a morbid thought, especially considering John’s obvious regret as he wilted into the grass with his head in his bloodied hands and sobbed as his friends hauled a seething Bob Wooler into Brian’s car. He has never had to ask who John performs for - that kind of understanding is a consequence of his nature. He sees himself in John, all of his neuroticisms and dreams and wants and worries packaged in a mind that is even more inflamed than his own. He has this distinct and tremendous energy that doesn’t care to be delicate as he surges across the battlefield. Brian could never ask such a question in the first place because he already understands that there is only momentary relief from everlasting fear. John will always throw the first punch and Brian will always stand in the wings of caution with idealism still in his heart, even if he’s left with bruises every time.

And then there was Paul, standing in the crowd with a measured expression of horror and concern, and Brian could almost feel John’s desperation channelled through him.  _ Say something! Do something! React!  _ But Paul could only have given him that look - the unimpressed, stoic and detached look he gets whenever Brian has to act as the levelling dash between Lennon-McCartney. It’s not as though he could ever explain it to him. How could he? _ I do have a connection with John, we are similar, you just can’t see it because you’re so… _

Brian wonders if he could consider himself the love child of their psyches. All of John’s wrought emotional intensity and eagerness for love coated with Paul’s social sensibilities and glittery aspirations and fierce need to be accepted. He thinks about it, watching the two men as they navigate a social scene with drinks in hand and dashing smiles as they shake hands and mingle with the small crowd. John desires love - genuine, all-encompassing and knowing and fulfilling love. Paul likes to be liked - he wants to be impressive and charming. And he is all of those things, which makes it so easy for him. He understands it now. Why John looks to Paul with unending affection and fear. Why Paul doesn’t feel the need to make a show of looking back. 

He worries about them, just as much as he worries for himself.

-

He had thought he understood John, that he had him worked out, until the Barcelona trip. Before then it had been the two of them walking through the galleries, sorting through vague plans for the band scribbled on papers, chatting backstage as he tuned his guitar. But it all comes out in the wash, he finds, because John had accepted the invitation without hesitation. Here he was, feeling foolish and already lonely at the mere suggestion of a break from his boys, grasping at heights he knew he would never reach and yet John had granted him this. Did he pity him? The thought was sour, and he made a tremendous effort to prove to John that he was  _ certainly not _ to be pitied. That he was exciting, an artist, the architect of a dream life. He paraded through Spain like he was invincible, taking John to the finest restaurants and the most elite clubs and allowing every ounce of charisma in his being to shape him into something grander than what he felt. But it had been in an unguarded moment, the two of them drunk and clumsy and swaying on their bended knees on the bathroom tiles, that John had grabbed him by the arm and told him fiercely, “ _ You can’t leave us, alright? Don’t treat us like a hobby you’ll give up on. _ ” And he had solemnly promised, too baffled by the statement itself to conjure a more articulate response. And in the dizzy chaos he had bowed his head, leaning up against the bathtub and sighed, “ _ You know I’m a homosexual, don’t you? _ ” And John had mumbled something that sounded like an affirmation. “ _ I’m asking you, John, to never throw it in my face. You hear? I tell you this because I trust you. _ ” John’s definition of ‘throwing it in your face’ must differ from Brian’s, because he often presents this intrinsic and unacceptable part of him on a silver platter for those gathered to balk at and shame. And Brian’s blood goes hot with rage tangled with unfortunate understanding. Worse, because John is untouchable and nothing he could say right back to him would do him any good, he never says those things. John can throw the punch, Brian can’t. But they both can stare each other down, talking quiet and slow, keeping their breaths steady as they tentatively admit to all that is broken and bruised that sits underneath armour. John understands it better than most of Brian’s friends do. Nat tries to, always doing his best by Brian. But he often resents those sad pressed expressions. He looks to John and sees a reflection of himself, the two of them caged in by what they share. 

“Paul and I could have gone to Spain, but we just stayed in Paris,” John had commented once, smoking languidly on a hotel bed, hair mused and shirt halfway unbuttoned. Brian had lingered by the doorway with his arms crossed and eyes stubbornly fixed on the floor. He didn’t know what to say to that, perhaps for the best. He supposes his mere existence could communicate to John as a reassurance that there are many men that feel more thrilled and settled in a partnership with another man than they ever could with a woman. But that in itself isn’t comforting enough. It’s what is swarming on the outside of what they are that is the most dangerous and isolating truth. He wonders whether John is even conscious of what can be deduced by the subtext of his words half the time. Is it deliberate? A cautious and calculated attempt to be better understood? Or something that has reached his heart before his head? In any case, Brian is shrewd and wary, navigating the complexities of Lennon McCartney with empathy Paul might never understand. 

But John doesn’t fear Paul the same way Brian does. He couldn’t. They know each other, there’s an understanding and a bond that the older man cannot try and replicate in a pale shade. Their relationship is unique and it’s theirs, and John’s whole heart is in it. Brian is nervous around Paul for all the reasons John gets angry when he’s drunk, shouting obscenities at anyone listening and then quietly lamenting to Brian later in an enclosed elevator that he’s scared everyone is going to leave him, that seeing less of Paul these days has him choking on dread like bile in his throat. What makes matters worse is that Paul isn’t entirely at ease with Brian either, he’s closed off and stoic - stubbornly so, and there’s nothing substantial he can do to mend it without being met with a quirked brow as if to say  _ Oh? Is John not around to give all this attention to?  _ So he does small things, twisting the telephone cord nervously when Paul calls up to ask about the fine print of some agreement he signed weeks ago. Doing his best to charm Jane Asher as she hangs on Paul’s arm, the beautiful pair still unwilling to grant him anything beyond pleasantries. It’s not like how it had been with John and Cynthia, with George and Pattie, with Ringo and Maureen. He had been the best man at all of their weddings but he fears that he’ll probably be assigned to a table with semi-forgotten relatives if Paul and Jane should ever decide to marry. Mostly, he’s unsettled by Paul just simply seeing him as the manager, rather than a friend - a part of the Beatles’ inner circle. If there was a way to reach him he would. He frets over every twitch of the musician’s jaw, every click of the tongue, every time his eyes wander to the window as he contemplates Brian’s words (the same words the other three are happy to accept right away). Trust is what it comes down to. And of course, the cruel irony is that yet again it is precisely in the moment he stops fighting and lets his guard down that he and Paul manage a small breakthrough.

“What’re we going to do about these rumours about me leaving the band to be a solo act?” Paul tacks on at the end of a discussion in Brian’s office about their upcoming tour, “Seem to be seeing it everywhere these days.”

“Well, I don’t feel the need to attack it, it’s really only limited to a certain circle of cheap gossip columns, nothing to fret over,” Brian assures him, “It will get lost in all the press of the tour and the new album.”

Paul nods, lifting himself out of the chair across from Brian’s desk and smooths out his blazer. Brian flips open his organiser and jots down a small note to mention the concern to Derek during his phone call with him later, but halts when he notices Paul is still standing across from him, fingers fidgeting with the buttons of his blazer.

“Is there something else?” he asks, mostly expecting another question about the tour, what days they have off, but Paul surprises him by looking almost nervous when he opens his mouth to speak again.

“Don’t suppose I have to tell you it’s all rubbish,” Paul purses his lips, “The rumours, I mean.”

“Of course not,” Brain frowns, “I’d never doubt your loyalty to the band… or to John.”

“Yeah,” Paul nods and busies himself with the corner of the pages of the morning paper sat at the edge of Brian’s desk, “Say, uh, I’ve been hearing really great things from Jane’s theatre friends about you running the Savile.”

Brian pauses, faltering and flushing, “Oh, I- That’s lovely.”

“They’re excited, y’know. So am I. You’re going to do great things there, I know it,” Paul looks up to meet Brian’s eye this time, and this time Brian holds his stare and smiles.

“That is so wonderful to hear,” Brian almost has to remind himself to relax his posture, to smooth out the worry he wears like a mask and fully appreciate the moment and the quiet goodbye Paul gives him before he’s strolling out the door, giving a cheery hello to his secretary as he heads to the door, whistling. 

“M.B.E stands for Mister Brian Epstein,” Paul tells the press later on, and Brian stands in the wings and tries to bite down his smile and the swell of pride and joy overwhelming him. Perhaps England can bruise his pride and label him an outcast, but he knows he would much rather be highly regarded in this circle anyway. 

-

It’s one of those golden afternoons on the rooftop of his apartment, Marianne Faithfull admiring the view with a cigarette pinched between her perfectly manicured fingers. It’s just the two of them, the rest of the small gathering still inside and marinating in incense and good wine.

“It must get so lonely,” she muses, speaking whispery low and fey, “Relying on yourself while the rest of us rely on you.” 

Brian is rather startled by the statement, but it’s nothing he hasn’t pondered before. Perhaps it has more to do with the fact that Marianne is constantly proving herself to be wise and burdened beyond her years. It was just last year that she was the giggling barely adult young lady that had cornered him backstage on the Hullabaloo set and flirted with him, blissfully unaware of what becomes so hilariously and achingly clear to him in those strange moments. 

“I can’t imagine being able to delegate that much trust to someone,” Brian leans against the railing and looks to the quiet street below, “Which sounds rather pathetic when said out loud.”

“I don’t mean to depress you, Brian,” she huffs, tilting her head and smiling at him playfully, “I actually meant to compliment you.”

He laughs, rolling his eyes to the sky with amusement, “What a melancholic way of doing so.”

“They look at you with awe,” she says, voice sounding miles away, “They really do. John and Paul. You might not see it because you’re so close, that’s the trouble with knowing someone so well, there’s always that risk of settling into assumptions.” 

Brian looks at her, touched by the sentiment but unbelieving there was much truth to it, “Because I’m a middle class grown up who knows about tax?”

“Because you’re  _ you _ . You’re a true leader and a pioneer, of course they admire you,” she waves her hand, looking almost indignant that he would even question her logic, and takes another long drag.

“It’s hard to tell with Paul,” Brian inspects the cuffs of his shirt sleeves, “Sometimes I wonder…”

“You mustn’t,” Marianne asserts, “Delegate some of that sacred trust to me just so you can have that knowledge. They love you, Brian, even if they can’t say it.”

Humbled and rose-cheeked, he puts his arm around her and holds her close.

-

“Well, I think it’s fantastic, and I’m sure they will too,” Brian says into the phone, free hand rustling through his briefcase, “You are a tremendous songwriter, George, don’t let their shadow intimidate you.”

“It’s not intimidating, really,” George’s voice fuzzes back through the line, “It’s just… Like being on the outside looking in. Like having to slide a piece of paper under their door instead of face to face, you see.”

Brian takes a long breath, his searching ceasing for a moment. He certainly knows how that feels. 

“You must write for yourself, for the band, but not for  _ them _ ,” Brian instructs gently, “They will respect you more for it.”

“I think it’s getting better,” George sighs, “But I appreciate your wisdom, all knowing Mr Epstein. What would we do without you?”

Brian hums, “Well, I certainly can’t teach you what you’re all learning over there. I am looking forward to it, George, truly. It should be good for all of us.”

“It can only do good,” George replies, “Pattie gives you her love, by the way.”

“Ah, tell my dear that I shall see her soon,” Brian’s fingers brush against the bottle of sleeping pills, “And give my best to everyone. I’ll see you soon.”

“Alright, Brian,” George yawns, “Take care. We love you.”

“Aren’t I lucky?” he chuckles, beaming when he hears George laugh and mutter something wry in response. He hangs up the phone, guided by lamplight back to his bedroom as he taps out the pills into his palm. It’s funny that George had put it like that, “like having to slide a piece of paper under their door”. Because it had been just last week when John had told him, languid and stoned, “ _ communication is no good unless it’s eye to eye. Mind to mind _ .”

He thinks about the wall between Lennon-McCartney, the strange distorted glass wall that makes the entire structure of the Beatles so strong and vibrant and colourful and yet so fragile. The problem with growing up is that you learn what you really need in life and there is an inescapable hunger for it if you haven’t found the answer. As he drifts off, bleary eyed and fuzzy minded, he thinks about the distance between the band, the chasms of unknown and unknowable and unreachable truths. He thinks of John and Paul and his mind succumbs to sleep. There’s nothing the Maharishi can tell John that will soothe him. There’s only ever been one person that gave John the answer he needed. 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! Come say hello over on tumblr at thisbirdhadflownx.


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